The Artist, Writer and Consulting Detective
by C.J. Small
Summary: Sherlock is considered to be married to his work. Maybe that's just because the right person never came along.
1. Chapter 1

**The Artist, Writer, and Consulting Detective.**

''I don't think you should put that.''

John Watson looked up from his computer screen to meet the polite, blue-eyed gaze of the woman opposite him.

''I'm sorry?'' he said, blinking a few times.

''I said, I don't think you should put that.'' she repeated.

''W-what-''

Before he could say another word she grabbed the laptop with both hands and turned it round to face her.

''The Artist, Writer, and Consulting Detective,'' she read aloud, eyes narrowed. ''I don't like it.''

''Why not? It's bloody hard finding a good name!'' John asked indignantly. He swore he heard her say, ''It must be,'' under her breath, but before he could protest she explained.

''It makes it sound like I'm two different people. An artist _and _a writer. It's unnecessarily confusing, especially when you read on and - I presume - find out I'm actually only one.'' she said simply. ''It also kind of sounds like one of those jokes,'' she continued, smiling. ''You know, the artist, the writer and the consulting detective walk into a bar...'' she trailed off.

John sighed deeply. ''God, it's bad enough having one of you.'' he muttered.

The woman smirked. ''I don't see what you're complaining about.''

_That_ _was the thing, _thought John. _After a while you started to wonder it yourself._

Three weeks earlier.

Alex

Alexandra Lamb woke up that morning feeling utterly fed up. She pushed her cat Apricot off her lap and rolled out of bed. She then trudged into the kitchen and pouring herself a bowl of cornflakes after digging through the cupboards to find one that wasn't broken or covered in food. The very thought of the tedious day ahead of her made Alexandra want to drown her sorrows in the milk. Somehow, she gathered the energy to put on some clothes: a tight grey turtle neck jumper, black jeans, a muddy pair of black and white _Vans _and her favourite - her old leather jacket.

The street outside her apartment seemed particularly grey that day. Not cold, not hot, just still and grey. The old couple opposite her waved merrily from their little garden, and Alexandra smiled and waved back, even stopping briefly to pet their grumpy little cat.

The bus stop was only a few streets away but that morning, as Alexandra dragged herself along, it seemed like miles.

_Bloody hell it's boring, _she thought miserably.

As she neared the top of the street, she saw the bus . She broke into a run, her bag swinging painfully against her side, but it drove away just as she reached the stop. She swore loudly, causing a passing old lady to recoil slightly, scandalised.

After ten minutes, another bus drew up. Alexandra stepped on, glaring at the bus driver. She plonked herself down at the back of the bus, next to a man and a boy in conversation. She paid no attention to them and pulled out her sketchbook and put on her headphones.

If she had taken time to look at them properly, she would have seen the man was in his late 30s, with unruly dark hair and a long jacket with the collar turned up. The boy looked about 12, and had no interesting features apart from a few spots.

''Mr Holmes, can you do it? Is it real? Is it a trick? Can you show me? Can you teach me? Can I film it? the boy asked eagerly, almost bouncing up and down in his chair.

The man simply looked out of the window. ''Yes, yes, no, maybe, no, no.'' he said.

''Do it then!' Go on, I dare you.''

The man sighed pointedly. ''The woman opposite us. She is conscious about her health, or at least her hearing. She has been on holiday to Italy recently, were sometime after she broke off an engagement. She has a sister named Jillian who she hasn't spoken to in a while, a mother whom is unwell, and a tortoise shell cat. Oh, and she is a writer, probably an artist too, but is not very well off.''

The boy stared at him, stunned. ''You're bluffing,'' he said.

Chuckling lightly, the man turned to look at him. ''I assure you I'm not. You see, she is listening to music but I can't hear it through her headphones despite our close proximity, so she is careful not to damage her ears. There is a mark on her ring finger that is lighter than the rest of her skin. It is real tan, because if it was a spray tan or a sunbed she would have removed the ring. So she was wearing it on holiday, but her phone lock screen is just a photo of a beach, not her or her partner, and with that and no ring suggests they are no longer together. I know it's Italy because of the photo, and also I remember last week John entering a radio competition for a holiday for two in Italy. The winner was a woman who told the listeners she was taking her new fiance. I doubt she would have gone otherwise, given her financial situation-''

''But how do you know about her financial situation?''

''The jacket she is wearing is old, and the label says 2007. That suggests it means a lot to her, but she can't afford to clean it, or alternatively, she can't afford a new one. Now, the family. Her phone buzzed, with a message from someone called Jillian saying 'Mum is a lot better. She said it was nice to see you. Can we meet up soon? xxx' when she looked at it she didn't reply she just sighed dismissively, implying she does not like her sister. I know it's her sister because she uses 'Mum' in a way that applies to both of them. I know she is employed in a job which involves a great deal of writing because of the lump on her middle finger. Her nails are bitten, implying she does a lot of sitting around and thinking. There are lots of ink smudges on her hands too, and the top of her notebook reads, 'Property of Alexandra Lamb. Until then I thought she was just a writer but I know for a fact that Alexandra Lamb is a writer _and _illustrator. I have one of her books at home in Baker Street.''

''And the cat?''

''Easy. White, orange and brown hairs and her jumper and cats on her phone case.''

The boy slumped back into his chair. ''Bloody hell, Mr Holmes. You're just as smart as the papers say you are.''

''Actually, that's where you're wrong,'' the man answered, smirking, ''I am much, much smarter.''


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: A couple of people were asking in PMs about Sherlock's sexuality. **

**In this story, he is bisexual: Johnlock is undeniable in the series, but **

**there was definately something between him and Irene. With that being **

**said, enjoy chapter 2!**

Chapter two- Sherlock

Really, it was a miracle in itself that the wall of the living room in 221B Baker Street was still standing. It was one of _those _days, the ones that drained the life out of you, It was a grey day. A nothingness one.

''You've had five cases, Sherlock,'' said John reprovingly as he walked in holding Rosie to see Sherlock joining the bullet holes in the wall to create a sort of horse type animal. ''Beggars can't be choosers.''

''I am not a beggar,'' answered Sherlock, not looking round. ''I need a good case. I need something to do.''

''Well you could pop off down to the shop and get me some more nappies from the supermarket.'' John knew that this was in vain, Sherlock never did anything if there wasn't anything in it for him. But to John's surprise, Sherlock sat up a little straighter and narrowed his eyes.

''No.'' he said immediately. A flash of disappointment crossed John's face. ''Fine.''

''Why the change of heart?'' John smirked.

That was a good question. Why the sudden change of heart.

''I don't believe in optimism,'' Sherlock said briskly, ''But I think something good is going to happen today.''

''What do you mean?''

Sherlock leapt up and pulled on his coat in one swift motion. ''Call it a gut feeling.'' just as he reached the banister, he whipped round and stuck his head round the door. ''Or the cocaine...''

And before John could chase after him, Sherlock hurried down the stairs, two at a time. Of course, he was joking - there had been no sign of drugs in his apartment for weeks, John must have realised that getting rid of them altogether was more effective than simply hiding them.

He flung open the door to and was greeted with the usual sight of rain and grey skies.

_It's not even proper rain, _he thought bitterly as he flipped his collar up against the wind. _If you're going to rain, do it properly. This is more like half-hearted spittle._

The supermarket was a good walk away. Sherlock rushed down the miserable streets. People shoved past, cars beeped, sirens wailed, umbrellas danced. The supermarket was a sort of quiet relief, almost empty apart from the occasional elderly lady pushing trolleys down aisles. The only noise was the steady beep of the checkout machines.

Sherlock grabbed the nappies and paid. The rain had got even worse while he was inside, it was almost like bullet showering down on his head.

The nearest bus shelter was crammed with people seeking refuge from the rain.

_How can you live in London and not expect it to rain? _Sherlock thought, glaring at the umbrella-less travellers.

The bus pulled up at the stop with a shudder. Sherlock hopped on board, skipping the queue in front of all the others and paid hastily. He slumped down on a seat at the back next to a boy absorbed in his phone and began to study the rest of the passengers.

She's divorced. He's in debt. He's visiting relatives, most likely parents. He's cheating on his wife. She's on holiday from Canada.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the boy had put down his phone and began staring at him with great interest. He was so busy studying an old woman who he suspected was an alcoholic that he didn't see a woman sit down opposite him.

He only looked around when the boy poked him on the shoulder. ''Hey! Are you Sherlock Holmes?''

Probably 12 years old going by his height and voice, has a dog, probably a golden retriever because of the hairs on his leg (high enough to be a big dog, but no hairs on his arms so he can't pick it up). His hoodie is an American brand, exclusive to that country. It looks new, whereas the rest of his clothes look old so he acquired it recently. He didn't buy it himself because he has no tan or sign of travelling abroad. Christmas isn't for another two months, so could be a birthday present. It is too fashionable to be a present from a grandparent or parent - the would never choose it out - so a sibling, most likely a sister. What's she doing in America? Probably studying.

''Yes. I am.''

The boy's eyes bulged. ''Mr Holmes, can you do it? Is it real? Is it a trick? Can you show me? Can you teach me? Can I film it? the boy asked eagerly, almost bouncing up and down in his chair.

Sherlock sighed impatiently. He stared out the window. ''Yes, yes, no, maybe, no, no.''

Grinning, the boy picked up his phone and pressed record. ''Do it then!' Go on, I dare you.''

Opposite them, Sherlock saw the woman who had sat down looked like a good target. She was pretty, in an interesting, clever way. She had a long face and steely grey-blue eyes hidden behind a lock of thick blonde hair. Sherlock studied her for a few seconds, then gently lowered the boy's phone and turned to him.

''The woman opposite us. She is conscious about her health, or at least her hearing. She has been on holiday to Italy recently, were sometime after she broke off an engagement. She has a sister named Jillian who she hasn't spoken to in a while, a mother whom is unwell, and a tortoise shell cat. Oh, and she is a writer, probably an artist too, but is not very well off.''

The boy stared at him, stunned. ''You're bluffing,'' he said.

Chuckling lightly, Sherlock twisted his body to pretend he was simply talking . ''I assure you I'm not. You see, she is listening to music but I can't hear it through her headphones despite our close proximity, so she is careful not to damage her ears. There is a mark on her ring finger that is lighter than the rest of her skin. It is real tan, because if it was a spray tan or a sunbed she would have removed the ring. So she was wearing it on holiday, but her phone lock screen is just a photo of a beach, not her or her partner, and with that and no ring suggests they are no longer together. I know it's Italy because of the photo, and also I remember last week John entering a radio competition for a holiday for two in Italy. The winner was a woman who told the listeners she was taking her new finance. I doubt she would have gone otherwise, given her financial situation-''

''But how do you know about her financial situation?''

''The jacket she is wearing is old, and the label says 2007. That suggests it means a lot to her, but she can't afford to clean it, or alternatively, she can't afford a new one. Now, the family. Her phone buzzed, with a message from someone called Jillian saying 'Mum is a lot better. She said it was nice to see you. Can we meet up soon? xxx' when she looked at it she didn't reply she just sighed dismissively, implying she does not like her sister. I know it's her sister because she uses 'Mum' in a way that applies to both of them.''

''And the cat?''

''Easy. White, orange and brown hairs and her jumper and cats on her phone case.''

The boy slumped back into his chair. ''Bloody hell, Mr Holmes. You're just as smart as the papers say you are.''

''Actually, that's where you're wrong,'' the man answered, smirking, ''I am much, much smarter.''

''Isn't that a bit smug?''

The corners of Sherlock's thin mouth twisted upwards. If he could get a pound for every time someone told him that, he would just need to walk into the police station and he'd be a millionaire.

''I suppose so. But modesty doesn't really get you anywhere-''

He was cut off, mid sentence, as the bus stopped suddenly. He was knocked to the side and his head smacked against the pole.

''Fuck...'' Sherlock muttered, wincing as his vision swam. Staggering, he stood up, realising it was his stop. It took him a moment to regain his balance.

Deductions and thoughts and ideas and schemes swirled in his brain. He couldn't see, he was blind, everything was a whirl-

SMACK.


End file.
